


you're the secret in the back of my skull

by sidnihoudini



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-07
Updated: 2009-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-26 03:36:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidnihoudini/pseuds/sidnihoudini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cook is. You know, homo and gay and shit. And Neal is kind of a dick but all the fag business is said in his most loving-ist tone so Cook considers it a feat.</p><p>Anyway, it's all old news now. He realized it when he was fourteen and was watching Zack Morris make out with his cardboard cut-out; Cook wanted to be that piece of cardboard, damn it.</p><p>So Cook meets David a week after Neal finishes that bag of bagels off, in a flourish of Cheese Whiz and peanut butter.</p><p>"My, ugh, hands," David says, slipping against the ice wall Cook has him up against.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're the secret in the back of my skull

The uniforms are purple, his head piece is purple, the ticket stubs are purple. His boss wears purple eyeshadow and matches her nailpolish just so, and goddamnit, all he wanted was a fifty-five-inch, state of the art plasma TV. He'd been willing to sacrifice his integrity from the start, but. He's a dude, always has been and probably always will be, and there's just -- something -- in his blood stream that says he should just, really. Well, be offended for himself.

It's six a.m. and Cook is trundling down the stairs in a house he shares with three other guys. He's dressed from head to toe in purple.

"One bagel, ah-ha-ah-ha," Neal starts before Cook is even fully in the kitchen. "Two bagel, ah-ha-ah-ha."

Cook shuffles past the table and chairs, and goes right for the coffee pot.

"You're hilarious," He not-promises, pulling a mug out of the cupboard.

Neal cackles, reaches for his bagel when it pops out of the toaster, and resumes his impression of what could officially be known as Cook's least favorite character on Sesame Street, ever.

 

.

 

"Some of Sweden's most popular designers have contributed to our rooms," Cook tells his group, as he leads the shivering masses down the diamond cut hallway leading to a row of suites. Most of them are breathing hard already and complaining about the cold, and when Cook said he was gonna spend a year backpacking through Europe, this isn't what he had in mind. "The guests at this hotel lay on beds of ice and use reindeer skins to keep warm."

The group around him murmurs and Cook smiles automatically, swinging one of the heavy cut doors open to expose a sheer room with a slab of ice in the middle and a few colored lights thrown throughout.

"Any questions?" He asks, already turning around to head back down the hallway.

Goosebumps break out over his forearms and he shivers. He maintains that purple was a bad wardrobe choice for such an already shitty job.

 

.

 

"One day, I'm going to kill myself," Cook promises, swinging his beer around within striking distance of his mouth. He gestures with one floppy, drunken hand, and glares sideways at Neal, always sitting beside him. "And then, that'll be it."

Neal snorts at him and shakes his head, tipping his beer up to swig at it and openly stare at the chick bartender's tits.

"Man, you know what," Neal tells him, after he's licked the alcohol off his lips and set his bottle back down on the counter. "You are gay. And a pussy. Who can't even live in not-America for like, three months without complaining."

Cook licks his lips, too, cause it's one of those things that you do after someone else has, kinda like yawning, and then sighs.

"I just miss my TV," He says, fondly. He stares at a spot behind the bar, between a bottle of some Swede liquor and a full jar of pickles. They live in a real sweet part of town lovingly called 'The Immigrant Ghetto.' "And ballpark chili dogs."

Snickering, Neal slaps a couple of kronor down on the bar top and gestures for the bartender.

"Jesus," He sighs, straightening his collar. "You're a little more homo than I thought."

 

.

 

Cook is. You know, homo and gay and shit. And Neal is kind of a dick but all the fag business is said in his most loving-ist tone so Cook considers it a feat.

Anyway, it's all old news now. He realized it when he was fourteen and was watching Zack Morris make out with his cardboard cut-out; Cook wanted to be that piece of cardboard, damn it.

So Cook meets David a week after Neal finishes that bag of bagels off, in a flourish of Cheese Whiz and peanut butter.

"My, ugh, hands," David says, slipping against the ice wall Cook has him up against.

Groups of American tourists usually make Cook lusty for a Whopper and a couple of Hot Pockets; when he found out he'd be trailing a Europe bound pack of Mormon tourists, he didn't think he'd end up banging one against one of the walls in their south facing rooms.

"Better," Cook asks, but it comes out like a statement, as he wraps one arm around David's chest and holds him still and away from the frost covered wall as he fucks in and out a couple of times, hard, because it's been a while since he had such a thorough North American fucking.

David nods rapidly and gasps until he's coming against the inside of his pants and the wall and everywhere else it seems like.

Yeah, Cook gets fired about twenty minutes after that.

 

.

 

So he feels kinda short changed about getting fired like that, but there's a silver lining, as he tells Neal that night, while regaling the whole story over a half-assed game of Life.

"Totally gave me his number, dude," Cook grins, rubbing his palms together. "He's here for like, two weeks or some shit. I don't know."

Neal shakes his head but he's kind of laughing the whole time he moves his little orange piece around the board.

"Only you, man," He sighs, leaning back in an overstuffed chair they found at the side of the road a couple weeks ago.

Grinning, Cook reaches forward to spin the wheel.

"Totally fucked a Mormon, dude," He reminisces, almost spinning the piece off the board.

 

.

 

David calls him in the hush of the night a few days later, voice sounding quiet and constrained but infinitely curious.

"I hope you don't mind," He says, before even a hello. "That I called."

Cook is sitting on the kitchen counter watching his roommates make cannoli -- the life of the unemployed -- and surreptitiously covers up the mouth piece.

"No," He answers, with the slow sneak of a grin.

The truth is, simply, this: David might be the best thing Cook has accidentally found in Sweden yet.


End file.
